


chalk on slate

by bravest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M, Post Episode: s08e23, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sam and dean give castiel a much needed pep talk, despite his early morning grumpiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chalk on slate

Castiel stays with them.

The first few weeks are terrible. He barely gets out of bed, he doesn’t shower, he curls up under blankets and doesn’t respond when Dean tells him he wants his bed back and that he’s tired of the couch. They force him to eat, to drink, they try to drag him in the showers, they buy him clothes and shoes he doesn’t wear, Dean cooks and makes him coffee since that seems to be the only thing he absorbs without grimacing.

Castiel still doesn’t  _do_  anything apart from moping. He doesn’t leave Dean’s room, which he has claimed as his own, doesn’t talk, just stares at his hands or the ceiling or the floor, and eventually weeks turn into a month and Dean’s had enough.

Sam is watching Dean make dinner with clipped, angry movements, sharing his frustration. The world is a mess out there, they need things to be fixed and it feels wrong to leave Cas in the bunker alone. They introduced him to Charlie, but he barely acknowledged her, and they need him, they need Cas with them in this, they know their team isn’t complete without him, angel or no.

So when Dean hands Sam his plate, puts his own down on the table, and places a third across from him, he’s not entirely surprised. It’s quickly joined by a cup of coffee.

“If he’s hungry the damn guy can make his own way to his food,” he mutters before stabbing his fork into a piece of broccoli, and Sam doesn’t disagree, chews through bites of steamy veggies and feels the weariness of the last few weeks ebbing away, bit by bit.

“Maybe we should talk to him,” Sam offers softly.

Soft feet padding on the floor interrupt them, and they both look up as Cas emerges, wearing some of Dean’s old sleep pants and an old worn shirt of Sam’s. His hair is messy and he’s glowering at them both as he walks right to the plate of warm food.

He reaches to pick it up and Sam slaps at his hand as Dean drops his fork angrily into his plate, hissing.

“No, Cas, we’re not doing this,” he says, looking everywhere but at his friend.

“Sit down,” Sam adds, and Castiel does, to his surprise.

“I want to go back to bed,” he says, wrapping his hands around the warm coffee cup. His fingertips are always cold lately, and although the taste of coffee has been dulled by memories he would rather forget, the warmth of it in his hands and on his tongue is safe, known.

“Cas, look, you can’t — ” Sam starts, putting his own fork down, watching their friend with a look that could be pity or concern. Dean interrupts him, lifts a hand to stop Sam, and fixes his gaze on Castiel.

“You can’t stay here,” he says bluntly, and Castiel’s eyes finally, for the first time in weeks, find his own. What he sees there is a loss greater than he can imagine, and he knows the chasm inside of Cas is larger than the Grand Canyon. “Not if all you’re gonna do is mope and sleep and eat our food and wear our clothes,” he continues. “If you stay with us, no more of this feeling sorry for yourself crap, okay? It’s over.”

“We know this is hard, Cas, even if you think we can’t even imagine,” Sam says, and he doesn’t know if this will do any good but seeing Cas like this hurts, it’s scary, and he wants Castiel to know that they’re here for him, that they’re family. “But you don’t have to shoulder this on your own. This isn’t your blame to take. You can’t let this define you, you can’t let it crush you,” he says, and it’s difficult to say this stuff, it’s hard when he knows what crushing, obliterating guilt feels like. Having the world on your shoulders, the future and well being of your own kind.

Castiel says nothing, ducks his head and stares into his coffee. He takes this like scolding, but his silence spurs Dean on.

“You stand up straight, okay? You get out of bed, you clean up, you help us fix this, and we’ll shoulder the blame with you,” he says, clearing his throat. “We fucked up. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, and if we can’t deal with that then what are we doing here?”

He says  _we,_ because Dean doesn’t believe for one second that they aren’t all responsible for this in one way or another, that they didn’t all play a part in the destruction of Heaven, in the Fall of the angels. Sam wanted to exorcise demons he’d carried for years so deeply ingrained in his own blood, Castiel was lost and confused and Dean pushed him into Metatron’s arms by refusing to talk to him after his return. They’d all played a part in this, in some way, shape or form.

“I deserved this. They didn’t.”

Castiel’s voice startles him from his thoughts, and he grits his teeth and shakes his head with a scoff.

“Come on, man,” he says under his breath, and Sam watches Dean’s hands come together, watches him wring them before he straightens up and rolls his shoulders. “You think either of us deserve anything good happening to us, after all the shit we’ve done? That’s not how it works, buddy, and you know it.”

He pauses, and his foot reaches under the table to tap Castiel’s to get his attention. His friends looks up, their eyes lock, and he keeps going. 

“Doesn’t mean we can’t pretend.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, Sam watching them both in silence. Interrupting seems unwise, and the longer they stare the more he can see a shift; a solidity that returns to Castiel’s frame, like an invisible weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Castiel sucks in a breath, drags a hand down his face and laughs, a soft chuckle under his breath.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asks, and Dean is smiling a little too, and they’re both looking at each other in that way that tells him it’s not about him. It’s one of those looks they only give each other, and as they both smile at one another, he thinks his question will go unanswered and that’s okay, it’s okay if they find humor in their situation because you’ve gotta admit it’s pretty fucking ironic.

It’s more than okay if Dean can make Cas smile about this.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Castiel says, grabbing a mini carrot from his plate, shoving it into his mouth and speaking as he chews it. “Then I’ll shower. But dishes first,” he says, and Dean beams at him, grins at Sam, and grabs his own plate.

“I’ll help,” he says, standing with it.

Most of the conversation happened with their eyes. They said the things their mouths didn’t, that one look cementing what Castiel needed to get from Dean to wake up from this. And if Dean and Cas can communicate this way, then that’s okay too. More than okay.

Sam watches them both head to the kitchen, watches their backs as they walk side by side, watches them take place at the sink next to one another, watches Dean elbow Cas in the side by-accident-on-purpose, and when Cas smiles at Dean he feels love, family, and home.

Castiel will lose his grip again, but Dean and Sam will be his net, and they’ll bounce him right back as many times as it takes.

That’s what it means, to be family.


End file.
